Assassin's Appasionato
by Aranel Saerwen
Summary: Formerly "Look What They Make You Give". The Professor. An enigmatic, detached assassin for the CIA. He feels nothing but apathy, he has nothing to lose...Or does he? A story about the Professor and what he might have felt, and for whom...TP/OFC
1. I: Look What They Make You Give

**AN: Here's a little random piece if you want one...I just found The Professor, as portrayed by Clive Owen, dangerously inspirational and attractive :) This was meant as a one-shot, 'stops here and that's all folks' piece, however, I'm willing and able to continue if there are enough people interested...If you want more from the Professor and my OC just let me know in a review or PM. And for any and every other comment, you know I'd love to know what you readers think :) Now, for the legal issues...**

**Disclaimer: I proclaim no rights or title to Bourne Identity/Supremacy/Ultimatum, they are Robert Ludlum's and Universal's characters, I'm just playing with them.**

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I. Look What They Make You Give...

Grey sunlight, typical of London, poured through a white curtained window into a plush, upper class, parlor, spilling over a dark piano poised in front of it.

On the instrument, a piece by Erik Satie was being played by a ten year-old boy, Henry Dawes, as his tutor sat on the nearby leather couch, listening. The child was talented, his fingers sure and light as they wrought the melancholy spell that mingled so well with the dreary light, and he concentrated fully on the sheet of music sitting before him.

The tutor was probably proud, but one wouldn't know whether he was pleased or displeased by the stoic look on his chiseled face. Actually, no one who had ever met Jeremy Cale, the Professor, could recall a time where emotion had been displayed by him in any manner. He always used an even tone of voice, always bore a plain face and his movements were steady and controlled, if not calculated. He seemed to be a shadow, a keeper of the participants in life rather than one of them.

He sat now with relaxed, but attentive, posture on the couch, his green eyes trained on the pupil, watching each movement, searching for a flaw that would be corrected in a deep British baritone devoid of any other inflection. His dark grey suit and matching tie of a lighter shade of grey was in keeping with the man himself, indistinct, the only ornamentation of his outfit one of practical use, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that just happened to attractively frame his intense green eyes.

At first glance, most, if not all people, found the man dull, and for him, that was a good thing. The reason for this was the plain and simple truth that Jeremy Cale was a killer. An assassin recruited, trained, and used by the CIA as a part of the Black Ops program known (to those few who knew it existed) as Treadstone. Obscurity, anonymity, and secrecy were traits of the highest value to him in his dual lifestyle, and the motto of his existence was that one couldn't remember something or someone they had never noticed.

So, Jeremy Cale, Professor by day, government assassin by night - or so to speak- sat reticent on the couch, seemingly impervious to anything the world might throw at him.

However, beneath the gray suit and obscure face, there existed a soul that was quite capable of feeling and doing so deeply. It would be hard to explain why such an artistic soul, for such Jeremy Cale's soul was, would become the callously efficient, robot-like assassin he was. So, instead, it is much easier to say that he simply was what he was, and kept the emotions that he did feel neatly bottled beneath the surface, only allowing them release at those times when he listened to or - very rarely in public - played the piano himself; being content the rest of the time to watch others experience humanity.

"That was beautifully done, Henry." as the piece ended a feminine voice congratulated the student's success where the teacher would not. The young musician jumped up from the stool and ran to his aunt eagerly, pulling her closer to the piano, talking at a fast pace about the piece he was to play at his school recital.

Alicia Dawes, 23, daughter of William Dawes III, book editor, lived with her aged father in the refined town house, caring for her deceased sister's son as her own. She was tall and lithe, with pretty hazel eyes and burnished brown hair that fell in waves to the center of her back. She had a ready laugh and an easy-going attitude, traits that were, sadly, somewhat rare in the upper class to which she'd been born.

Jeremy had profiled her as he did everyone: quickly and accurately, however, he couldn't dismiss her so easily. She was like a magnet; constantly tugging and calling, pulling at the barriers so strongly affixed around him. She had no idea of course, and Jeremy would never give her one, besides that, he was never around her long enough for any serious damage to be done.

"...I'm going to go after Margaret; she's number 6, so I'm right in the middle of the program." Henry was saying as he showed Alicia a program, wrinkled from being in his pocket.

"A very good place, you'll be the star of the show." Alicia said with a bright smile, proud of his hard work. Henry put the program down on top of the piano,

"You play it, Ally," he said, using her nickname, "I want to hear you play it."

"Oh, maybe later, Henry, you're not finished with your session, and I don't want to waist the Professor's time." she declined, glancing over at Jeremy. He sat like impenetrable stone, but felt those soft hazel eyes bore into him. She tugged her eyes back to her nephew, "Anyway, I'd much rather hear you play it again." She stood from the stool, smoothing her dark skirt over her shapely legs before going over to the sofa and sitting on the opposite end. As Henry began the song over, she leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her clasped hands, listening attentively.

But Alicia's thoughts were on something other than the song. She thought about the Professor, Jeremy Cale, the man she'd become intrigued, and now, almost obsessed with.

All her life she'd lived within her father's circle of well-to-do friends and associates, and as she'd grown up with their sons and daughters she'd been affronted by the facades and incessant 'keeping up with the Jones' that seemed to be a sport with them. Every word out of their mouths was about 'them' and what 'they' had done, and there had been a lot of such words, so many that sometimes she felt like she lived within a beehive, amidst a thousand queen-bees whining for their way. Even when they'd all gone to University, the place that was supposed to be the rite of passage from adolescence to adulthood, it had continued. So, when she'd met the piano instructor her father had hired, so silent and reticent, she'd been curious to discover why he was so different.

She'd sat in on several lessons in order to satisfy her curiosity, even talked to him, short vague conversations that left neither with any real information, and she had felt alarms go off at the instructors recurring lack of emotion. But then, that day came, the day when Jeremy Cale played the piano for Henry.

The teacher and his pupil had been alone in the parlor as she'd resigned herself to keep to the study where she could work. After a discussion with her father about the 'strange man' whom she 'did not trust' she was trying to do as she had been told and 'calm down and not get into a tizzy'.

She'd been sitting at the desk, re-editing the children's story from a new author, when a song, very much different from the style of Henry's playing, rolled through the house. Sitting down her glasses she'd stared at the open door, as if to see the source of the music come walking through it, and, when it hadn't, she'd gotten up and quickly while quietly, walked to the parlor, following the enchanting sound.

Standing at the door, she'd seen, not her nephew, but the Professor Cale himself sitting at the instrument; his jacket draped over the stool beside him, his fingers dancing across the ivory keys flawlessly. Henry had stood at his shoulder, watching with rapt attention and awe, just as she. Alicia had stepped into the room, drawn to the music, anxious to see the musician's face. Standing in the soft shadows of that rainy afternoon, she'd observed a totally new Jeremy Cale; instead of the vague expression in his eyes, turned downward to the keys, there was fire and rain, passion and sorrow, and it came to her ears, echoed by the notes he pulled from the wooden box sitting in front of him as a thick sticky substance like the sap from a tree that was surely alive.

Someone could not play music like that and not feel something.

Her fear and suspicion had been turned to intrigue and fascination by that experience, and ever since then, she'd wondered why he kept himself so closed off from the world. He was intelligent, he seemed to be someone of moral character, and he was rather good looking with his dark hair, green eyes, and pleasing features, reasons for which she didn't see the need for his intensely enforced solitude. The curiosity had become a full blown obsession, and then, a concern as she came to the conclusion that something dreadful must have happened to him to make him this way. She felt compassion for the man, and a longing to know the man he was and had once been. She wished he would play again, she thought he was beautiful when he played. But he never did.

So, she sat on the opposite end of the sofa, listening to the piano, thinking of him. This would be the last time he'd be here, they were selling the London house in order to move to Bath, her father's health was rapidly deteriorating in the smoggy streets of the teaming city and she knew that both he and Henry would do better there. Henry didn't know they were moving yet, she hadn't wanted to tell him before everything was settled, and that hadn't happened until just an hour ago, so, she would have to break the news to both he and the Professor today. She was surprised by how sad she felt at the prospect of not seeing the Professor...Jeremy...any longer. Perhaps she'd entertained more imaginings about him _with_ her rather than just him in the past few weeks. But that didn't matter now did it.

When the lesson was over, she asked the Professor to come to the study so she could give him his monthly check. Within the darker study, Jeremy Cale stood in front of the desk while she filled it out, and she could feel his green eyes on the top of her head, boring through her skull and digging into her brain where he could see what she was thinking. At least, that's what it felt like.

"Here you are." she stood and handed him the slip of paper, coming round the desk. Their fingertips touched and she felt her heart hammer a little faster. But she swallowed back the sensation and turned her thoughts once more to the unpleasant business at hand.

Unknown to her, Jeremy couldn't ignore the reaction he'd had to their brief contact either, but as he saw that there was something else on her mind he reinforced his guards and gave her his undivided attention. He was surprised by the hesitance he saw in her eyes, evidence that she was about to say something she didn't want to, and, somehow, he knew he didn't want to hear it.

"We're moving to Bath." she said, her words sounding rushed, forced - it was even more difficult to say than she'd imagined. She took a breath and her pace slowed. "I want to thank you for how you've worked with Henry; he's a different boy than when he first came here after..."

"He's a good student." Jeremy cut in, severing her sentence and trying to block the sudden influx of emotions that her revelation had made. She nodded her head, looking down as a small sad smile crossed her mouth.

"He is that...You're a good teacher." she looked up at him again as she said this, their eyes meeting, a fleeting message passing between them that could not be translated into words. "If you're ever in Bath...please, do stop by, I - I know Henry would - love to see you again." she faltered, his eyes were burning into her brain, sending a searing heat through her veins to her heart. She wanted him to know how much _she_ would want to see him again, she wanted him to know how much she would give him...the real him she'd only had a glimpse of, the him she knew was the professor's core...so she held his gaze.

Jeremy couldn't look away from her, he didn't want to walk away either, however much he knew he couldn't stay. The walls were crumbling, the foundations cracking. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. Well, that wasn't true, he knew what he _wanted_ to do, he also knew what he could _afford_ to do and what he could not. The truth was, he just didn't know what he _would_ do. Words were rushing through his head, impulses were rushing through his nerves, desires and fears rushing through his blood, and at his weakest moment he had to choose.

Suddenly, impulsively, Jeremy took Alicia by the arm and pulled her stumbling against him, crushing her mouth with his. She gasped; the sound turning to a moan as it was muffled against his mouth. Then her lips parted, and she inhaled him, realizing who it was she was kissing.

The only light in the study came from a table lamp on the desk, throwing shadows on the pair as they shared that fleeting and impassioned embrace. There was desperation in their kiss, in the way that both clung to the other as if they would disappear the next moment.

In truth, they would.

Jeremy was lost in what he never allowed himself to feel, in what he'd always wanted to feel. It was more than just the sugared and spiced warmth of Alicia's mouth and skin; it was the range of sensation that washed over him like so many waves in an ocean. They were bruising and caressing, discordant and harmonious...like Chopin. He loved the humanity of Chopin.

Then his cell phone rang and vibrated, simultaneously, in his coat pocket between them.

The two sprung back as if burned, as if both knew just who it was that was calling. As the phone continued to ring so loudly in the quiet room, so did the finality. Then, the caller hung up, and there was silence once more.

Jeremy looked for one last moment at Alicia, and she looked back at him; neither saying a word, but neither keeping any secrets. Then, Jeremy turned and left, leaving the door standing open.

Alicia stared at it as she heard the front door close. Turning to face the desk, she put a hand to her lips and closed her eyes, willing tears back as she forced herself to remain where she was.

As he walked down the sidewalk to his car, Jeremy plucked the cell out of his pocket and flipped the phone open. The message was there, the order and picture in Technicolor. He slapped the phone shut, and as he unlocked the car door, he glanced back at the town house, and then slid into the driver's seat, and, doing what he had to, he left. As he started the engine he turned off the CD that automatically started in the player - it was Chopin.

**...Don't worry guys, more is coming for _No Longer an Innocent_, and I hope to write another Dark Angel M/A story soon...Till then, please review!**

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edit: 7/26/08

**PS. This is set a bit before Bourne Identity actually begins, that's why the Professor is in London. Sorry, I overlooked that. Thanks to texamich for pointing that out...:)**


	2. II: Tomorrow Never Dies

**AN: Chapter two is here and I am definitely continuing this story! Thank you to texamich, Sarah Rochester, morningstar67, and TongTong3 for your lovely reviews. They were and are very much appreciated. Ch. 2 is a bit different in pace from the previous chappie but I hope that you all still enjoy it. Any constructive criticism you have is appreciated (as well as all other comments) and I'm currently looking for a Beta, so if anyone would like to volunteer, just drop me a line :)**

**On a different note, I was hit with the idea to make a video for this story so there's a link on my profile**** :) Now I'll let you read...**

**Disclaimer: I proclaim no rights or title to Bourne Identity/Supremacy/Ultimatum, they are Robert Ludlum's and Universal's characters, I'm just playing with them.**

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II. Tomorrow Never Dies

_The French countryside. Two years later..._

It was not Jeremy Cale that looked through the scope of the sniper rifle that cold, pristine morning. He had not been Jeremy Cale since he'd been reassigned to Barcelona, since he had left the Dawes residence that night in London. The clear and keen green eyes that peered through the glass at the farmhouse set in the French countryside were not those of a man but of a killer. They were the eyes of the assassin codenamed Professor.

He had no thoughts of morality or justice as he waited for his target to come into view; he only had a mission and a duty to complete it. That was what he was trained to do, that was what he would do. There were no questions, no doubts; only mechanics.

His breath created a thin fog in the chill of the morning, and he waited, watching for his mark to slip, waiting for his opportunity. Everyone seemed to still be asleep in the quaint farmhouse, yet he was ready, knowing better, knowing that appearances were always deceptive. Then suddenly, as if to prove his point, all he saw was the glare and billowing plume of an explosion, blocking any hope of a shot.

He scanned the area quickly and caught sight of a black trench-coat darting across the snow and into the trees. Automatically, he squeezed off a few rounds, the shots ricocheting off of the side of a hill as the shadowy form disappeared into the trees and he grabbed his weapon and removed the silencer, hurrying after him.

The crunch of snow under his feet was the only other sound, the woods having suddenly become eerily quiet. As he knelt in the grass, his eyes darted around, searching the skeletal line of trees for any sign of his prey - or was he now the predator?

There was a shot from somewhere, but the echo rendered it useless to him as the calls of the disturbed birds rasped the air, camouflaging any other noise, threatening to reveal his position. Setting aside his rifle, knowing that he had to move or be moved, the Professor reached inside his ammunition bag, pulled out his Glock, and began making his way to the more substantial and secure cover of the trees.

As he weaved this way and that, another shot rang through the air, just as he knew it would, and he grit his teeth against the bite of buckshot that tore his right arm, the force of it sending him to the ground, his gun flung away from him.

Breathing heavily, he clawed through the snow toward the weapon, praying silently that he would make it, hearing the click of the shells being reloaded into a shotgun. But he simply had too much blood on his hands for God to hear him. Just as he caught up his gun and swung around to fire, he was thrown to the ground again, and this time his shooting arm was riddled with holes. As warm blood seeped between his skin and the thick wool of his sweater, he cried out in horror and disbelief. "NO!" as, for some reason, a face flashed in his mind, one with hazel eyes.

"Where is it?" the figure standing before him demanded. "Where's the weapon!" But he only gripped his shredded arm, breathing heavily with pain as the mark stepped behind him and retrieved the fallen gun. He watched resignedly as the other man knelt in the snow and quickly reloaded his shotgun. "Who else is out here?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder, "Who else - How many you got with you? I'm not going to ask you again."

Knowing he was had, the Professor answered him, "I work alone, like you." he looked over at him, "We always work alone."

The man's brow scrunched, "What do you mean?"

"Who are you? Bonn? Paris?" he asked instead, but the man looked lost. "Treadstone - the both of us."

"Treadstone?"

"Which one?" he wanted to know just who had managed to kill him.

"Paris...I live in Paris."

"Do you still get the headaches?" he asked.

"Yeah." the man said.

"I get such bad headaches. You know at night when you're driving a car? I dunno, maybe it has something to do with the headlights." he was rambling, his thoughts running with his blood.

"What is Treadstone?" the man interrupted him.

"Treadstone...said, 'Pioze'- They said 'Go to Paris..." he winced, his breath coming short, pain shooting through his nerves and debilitating him slowly.

"Is Treadstone in Paris?"

But as he groaned in pain, all the Professor could see or think of was a brown haired girl with hazel eyes and soft lips, and all that he could have had. He saw the life that could have been his flash before his eyes. He looked down at his ruined arm, "Look at this. Look at what they make you give." and he found himself looking up to the grey sky. There was nothing there; it was blank - empty. Another spasm of pain shot through his chest, and he found he didn't have the strength to hold himself up, to keep his eyes open, to keep what little life he had left inside of him there. He fell back and closed his eyes, exhaling his last breath.

- - -

The silence of the morning was shattered by the sound of an explosion. Then gunfire. Matthew Villiers, 37, on holiday, stood frozen as he watched a plume of black smoke rise and dissipate in the grey sky, his golden retriever, Ralph, barking at it, as if he could keep whatever evil force had caused it at bay. Matthew stood there till everything was silent again, a million thoughts rushing through his head, and then, without one more, he broke into a run, closing the chamber of his rifle, Ralph running ahead of him.

Snow crunched beneath his feet, birds cried above his head, and his heart pounded within his chest. Images of his neighbors and their children, bodies bleeding, flashed through his head, and he wondered why he was running towards the danger instead of away from it. He wondered what he would do when he got there. Then, as he broke free of the trees skeletal hands and into the meadow, he stopped. Everything was silent. Too silent. A premonition hung over the expanse of dead grass and snow; a knowledge that if he continued on things would never be the same.

Ralph plunged ahead, forming a path amidst the dried stalks, and Matthew found himself following, his eyes darting around, his ears keen for any threat. A few kilometers ahead, the dog started barking and whimpering, and he could hear him in the grass, circling around something; like he did when he'd found road-kill. His heart hammered faster and louder, the muscles in his abdomen contracting apprehensively as he looked down.

There was a man lying on the ground, a stranger, his arms torn and riveted by pellets. He was pale and motionless. Matthew immediately knelt beside him and, placing his index and middle finger against his throat, checked for a pulse. One lagged just beneath the skin. He pulled his cell phone out.

- - -

Antiseptic, beeping, a general hum of machines and monotone voices. He opened his eyes to see a white ceiling, white walls, and white bed-sheets. His arms hurt; they throbbed with a steady pulse, and his head was foggy and heavy. Looking about, he found that he was most definitely in a hospital and that he was definitely not alone.

An attractive woman in her late forties and a white lab coat stood to his left, a tablet in her hands - his chart - and seeing him stir, she smiled pleasantly. "I was hoping you'd join us soon, Monsieur Jeane Reynaud." she said, marking something down. He looked around for the other member of 'us'. "Monsieur Villiers...The man who brought you in, he just stepped outside to call his wife." she informed him, "I'm afraid that we couldn't locate Miss Dawes though."

His eyes whipped over to her face, confusion showing there. The doctor's mirrored them once she saw his expression. "You were saying her name when you were in the ambulance, Alicia, Alicia Dawes...Is she a relation?" her manicured brows bunched.

"I have no idea who you are speaking of." he said immediately, firmly, his French flawless.

The doctor looked at him with a measuring look. She suspected something - she had good reason to. "Those were some nasty gunshot wounds you had, monsieur." she said as she hung his chart back up, a difference in her stance, something aloof and guarded. "Someone seemed to be very upset with you. Mind telling me what happened?"

He didn't answer.

A muscle in her forehead ticked and she looked away. "You've been out for a while. We've had you sedated, trying to accelerate your healing, but you're pretty fast on your own. I'm sure you're still sore though."

"I'm better?" he asked.

"_Oui_...It was close though, your Brachial was severed, you lost about four pints. It's a miracle you're alive, but I'd say you'll still have to do some rehabilitation exercises - nothing as bad as it could have been." She tilted her head as she looked at him, studying him for a reaction, "However, the police have questions for you, and now that you're awake they won't be kept waiting much longer." she bit her lip, as if considering something. "But I'll hold them off for a bit so you can...get oriented with your surroundings."

He met her gaze, his unreadable, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod before turning around and leaving. Once more he was alone.

Gingerly turning his head this way and that, _Jeane _slowly sat up. Looking at his arms he saw white bandages protruding from beneath the sleeves of a hospital gown, an IV and LEDs attached to various parts of his body. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he carefully transferred his weight onto them. His head spun some and he turned slowly to the machines, turning off the heart monitor so that it wouldn't send an alarm to the nurse's desk when he removed the pads. His heart was beating at a steadily faster rate, his adrenalin rushing as he formed a plan, and, pulling the IV out, he winced, gripping the site to stem any bleeding.

Not a moment passed and he was slipping down the hall, in the opposite direction of the Parisian Police, their black uniforms crisp blots on the white wall where they leaned, conversing with one another. He found the door to the laundry and slipped inside, crouching low as he listened for any other person's presence. Everything was still but for the hum of the industrial dryer that sat across the room. In a matter of minutes he had found scrubs and even a lab coat and an abandoned pair of shoes a size too large. He pulled them on, burying the hospital gown he'd been wearing in a basket beneath a healthy pile of sheets. Removing his glasses, he rinsed his face and wet his hair at the sink, making himself somewhat presentable, unable to do anything but ignore the stubble on his face that had appeared with the lack of regular shaving, and as he prepared to walk out of the hospital the only thing he wished that he had was his gun.

Exiting the laundry he looked down the hall to see the doctor talking to the officers right outside of what had been his room, the two men did not look pleased, whatever argument the doctor was making having little effect. He needed to make his escape sooner than later. He began walking.

It was a quick, clipped, yet easy walk, a doctor's walk. One of business and importance, devoid of panic or worry. He scoped the halls and rooms, searching for an exit, for a weapon. He was within his element once more - this time he would remain the predator. He found a stairwell and ducked into it. He was halfway down the first flight before the door closed and he could hear yells from the hall above him and heavy footsteps as they discovered his room empty. Yet he paid it little mind, continuing his downward spiral.

The third floor. He heard the door to the stairs open and the heavy footfalls of someone following him on the concrete steps. Second floor. He quickened his pace in order to stay ahead, holding onto the rail, the white coat trailing behind him as he whipped around the corner of the landing. First floor. He shoved the door open and stepped out into crisp wintry air, finding himself at the back of the building. The chill seeped through his borrowed clothes, biting at his flesh, but he hardly noticed as he hurried across the parking lot full of vehicles and then turned down a sidewalk. It must have been around lunch for the sidewalks were busy, an element in his favor, but as he weaved in and out of the crowd, white coat standing out amidst the winter grays, browns, and blacks, he realized he would have to get new clothes, fast.

Stepping off into an alley he continued to walk calmly past the puddles of muddy water and shadows. Checking over his shoulder to see that he wasn't followed, he turned once more, down the next sidewalk just as the sirens of the backup called by his pursuers came floating from the adjacent street and vanished into a small café.

There were flowers in vases on each table, soft acoustic music playing, the aroma of coffee heavily perfuming the air, and a coat tree by the door. The calm mundaneness contrasting surreally with the gravity of his situation. Looking around he counted the patrons and the exits as a young man stepped up to the counter, "_Monsieur_?"

He turned his attention to him, "_Café, s'il vous plait_." he ordered as any other customer would, and as the barista went to the back of the bar his eyes casually swept the room once more.

Everyone was engaged in some way; an older man read a paper near the left window, a couple whispered together, their heads close, and in the back a man in a business suit and a teenage girl were using their laptops, a pair of women talking animatedly in the corner near the bar. He had his opportunity. Making sure that the barista was still occupied, he turned to the door, smoothly grabbing a long dark coat that was probably the businessman's, and he slipped back onto the street.

Shrugging into the coat he became invisible, and when the police officer ran out of the alley just a few feet ahead of him, scanning the crowd, he did not flinch as he walked by, continuing to the metro, an address and phone number reverberating in his mind.

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	3. III: Russian Tea

_Author's notes below..._

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III. Russian Tea

The apartment was average for Paris, a building like a thousand others; clean, in repair, an air of age about it due to the Renaissance influenced architecture if nothing else. It was an average place. A place where people came and went without a care. Where a person who was not so average could come and go without notice.

Jean took the stairs, going up to the third floor. But before he even entered the hall he knelt beside the door and removed one of the bricks - he had placed a key there for just a situation such as this. He took it and was inside his apartment less than a minute later.

Stopping at the threshold he surveyed the room, everything had a place, and he would make sure that is in it before he took another step. Everything seemed secure, but as he stepped inside he felt he longing for the comforting steel of his gun. Closing the door he stripped his coat, wincing slightly as his muscles, still raw, stung with the stress. He hung the garment on the hall tree and promptly strode to the kitchen, making his way over to the dishwasher. Nailed to the appliance's roof there was a holster holding a very effective handgun. He pulled it out and his finger curled around the trigger, reflexively. Already he felt better; better prepared to face his current situation, yet, first things first, he needed to call Headquarters and report.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he sat down on the right end of the couch, reaching underneath it as he pulled out his backup cell phone. Keying in the phone number he knew better now than his own name, he put the device to his ear and waited. One ring after another echoed in his ear, like a siren on a cold clear night, without answer - Something was wrong, very wrong.

Snapping the phone shut, he immediately went into the bedroom and started shedding the stolen clothes.

Soon, he was dressed in slacks, a white shirt, matching jacket, his own shoes, and a fresh black overcoat. He put the gun in the waist of his pants at his back, and pocketed the phone. He had a particular place to dispose of it. Taking the clothes he put them in a garbage can and adding Jean Reynaud's passport, he burned everything.

Pulling new papers out from a shoebox under the floorboards, he flipped open the passport and read his new name, _Isaac Parks_. He pocketed the booklet and grabbed a small black bag from the closet. In it he put three sets of fresh clothes, two other passports, colored contacts, several rolls of various currency, and a bottle of aspirin. Zipping it shut he swung it over his shoulder and headed for the door.

From then on he reacted out of training, having only a bare scrap of a plan, and knowing that he needed to be somewhere that there was a crowd, yet also needing to think, he headed for the metro once again, taking the train back into Paris' downtown.

As the lights flashed by, rain and clouds magnifying their eyes, he looked out of the window and across the car, alert to the people surrounding him even as he tried to determine what was happening with Treadstone and considered his situation.

He needed to rely on the facts, all mysteries were solved with facts, so he went over them.

Bourne had been his target. Bourne had survived. He had failed. They probably thought he was dead. But that didn't mean he wouldn't have been able to contact them. The hospital. The name Jean Reynaud. All his aliases were registered within the Treadstone database. If the hospital had tried to access any of his medical records through that name then Headquarters would know he was not dead. Yet why had they left him in the hospital; at the mercy of the French police? He was trained to handle such situations, of course, but with Bourne still alive it seemed that protocol would have changed a little. They would have at least contacted him to debrief him.

_Stick to the facts_. He had called the number and the procedure had not been followed - hell, no one had even answered! Had Treadstone been disbanded? That wouldn't be good. If they knew that he was still alive what did that mean for him? Nothing good there either. Imperceptively, he shifted the tail of his coat, making sure that his gun was accessible should he need it. He was a liability. He had the potential of causing whoever was concealing Treadstone great damage.

With one phone call he was nearly one hundred percent certain that the BlackOps syndicate was being done just that - concealed. And he was a threat. Threats were eliminated. They would come for him.

There was at least one solid fact, he would have been better off dead in that field.

He looked out the window. He needed to come up with a plan, he needed a strategy, an escape. Where should he go? Cairo? Dublin? Moscow? Berlin? London? Tokyo? Hong Kong? Calcutta? There was no where that they would not find him. Not the city, or the country, not even the jungles of suburbia.

The lights were beginning to bother his eyes, causing a familiar headache to pulse just behind them. As the train slowed to a stop and passengers disembarked, he rubbed them, not noticing the man who climbed aboard the now half-empty car and sat a few rows behind him across the aisle.

The train started up again. Exhaustion teased his nerves and muscles, beckoning him to take comfort in sleep, but he fought against it. He had to think, he had to plan - he had to survive.

It was then that he heard the sound. That nearly imperceptible click of a gun's safety being taken off. He had used too many such weapons not to recognize that soft whisper. He had killed too many people not to know when the threat lie at his door. His muscles tensed imperceptively, he senses going on the alert. Had they found him so easily?

The train passed through a tunnel, the lights on the train going dark, sending impulses through his flesh as strange shadows of shadows played on the walls. The train seemed to roar, a ghastly muffled sound, and the move was made.

He sprung from his seat and grabbed the outstretched wrist with one hand, finding his attacker's shoulder blade with the other as he jerked him out of his seat. With one firm twisting push he dislocated the arm, causing the man to cry out and drop the weapon. He dodged the thrust of a jackknife, aimed for his gut, and twisted the injured arm around the other man's throat, choking him as he gagged from the searing pain of his dislocated joint. With a knee to the back he heard a cracking sound and knew a disc had slipped out of place, making it easier to sweep the man's feet out from under him, sending them both toppling to the metal floor.

The attacker managed to free his elbow and sent it into his face, causing his nose to bleed as though it were broken. But he was sloppy, the bones were still intact and the Professor simply flipped the assassin over and pinned him down with his legs, crossing his arm over his throat, listening to him retch as he searched for oxygen.

"Who are you?" he demanded as the lights flashed over the man's face. It was bloodied, red dribbling from his thin lipped mouth and over his sharp chin. It was possible that he had broken one of his ribs and punctured a lung, but he persisted, banging his would-be assassin's head against the steel floor. "Who are you working for?" he demanded.

The man smirked with that insane arrogance that death offers as a cold ether, his eyes chill, and muttered something in Russian, a sneer crumpling his ashen face. Then there was a subsequent gurgling sound and, as the smirk fell away, the cold faded from his eyes, leaving nothing but blank dark holes.

The Professor shoved away from him with a feeling of surprise. But as the shock of the killer's last words faded away, it was replaced by a sensation of disgust for the mass of wasted flesh lying prone on the metal floor. Instinctively emptying the Russian's pockets into his own, he looked ahead to see a stop coming up. Grabbing his bag from the seat, he slung it over his shoulder and headed for the exit, stepping off as soon as the door opened and headed for a nearby parking lot.

- - -

The day seemed especially grey that morning. For some reason, it seemed ominous, it seemed to fit the wariness with which Alicia Dawes had woken. Now dressed for work, she drove along the busy London streets to her office, thinking how it was to be back and how strange life could be.

Bath had not been as good to them as she had hoped. Henry had hated the school there, not making friends easily. But what was more, her father's health had not improved and before six months had passed in their little yellow and white cottage, the elder man had died, leaving Alicia alone in the world.

Perhaps that was a bit melodramatic. Yet it was the feeling that engulfed her sometimes; a feeling of abandonment. She could easily become angry over the situation that had caused Henry so much more pain, that had taken her job due to her inability to keep up with deadlines at work while things at her home started falling apart. She could easily be angry that she had to take a job in London working at a newspaper owned by one of her so-called friends. Fritz Davidson was one of the most conceited pricks she had ever met - and that was saying something. But what really angered her, when she thought of her father as gone from this world, was the fact that there was no one to comfort her, no one she could rely upon for support, not anymore - despite Henry's admirable attempts; there just were some things a ten year old could not understand. No, she needed her father, for no matter what the grouchy old man's faults were he had always provided encouragement when things were hard. Now things seemed hard.

She sighed and turned on her CD player, hoping to tune out of her thoughts. She needed to go in with as little mental baggage as she could if she was going to make it through the day. She turned down the busy wet street that passed in front of the newspaper building but did not glance over at its pillared front, familiarity breeding a contempt for its Greco-Roman architecture. People came in and out of its doors, a steady stream that Alicia had to wade through in her high heels, with her coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other.

As she maneuvered around the people, her thoughts on the drafts she had to edit, she never noticed the tall dark headed man who stepped up from his lounging place against one of the pillars, folding his newspaper and slipping it into his jacket - right beside his gun. Nor did she notice the second, not until he stepped right in her path, forcing her to stop and look up at him with a surprised apology in her face, one that melted away as she saw the purposeful set of his dark and baleful eyes.

"Excuse me…" she stammered, hoping it was just her imagination working over time. But as she tried to sidestep him, her imaginings were confirmed as fact as a hard grip took her wrist, pulling her dangerously close to a broad and firm chest.

"Nyet. Excuse me…Miss Dawes." and as her eyes widened with the fear filled surprise of his knowing her name, they glimmered with horror as she felt something sharp and stinging on her wrist. Her tongue immediately felt like stiff leather, and she looked down to see a tiny needle, like a toothpick, sticking out of her wrist. As the fog briefly cleared she realized what was happening and screamed for help. But the drug had all ready done its work and her sound was that of a moan as she fell back into the waiting arms of her captors.

With minimal glances from the curious public, the two Russians carried Alicia's unconscious form down the steps she'd just climbed a moment ago and draped her across the back seat of a black car. The driver locked the doors after they too got in and as he pulled away from the parking place he took up his phone and hit one on his speed dial.

It only rang once before it was picked up and he crisply enunciated three words. "We have her."

- - -

A man in his fifties walked down a long grey and white corridor, escorted by a uniformed guard whose bearing suggested that he was used to walking into rooms filled with dangerous men on a regular basis. But with crags of lies and caution lining his face, Ward Abbott was no stranger to them either.

As yet another barred door buzzed, the two men entered a smaller room bare of furnishings except for a counter that cut the room in two, with a plexi-glass window stretching from its top up to the ceiling, with a chair on either side.

"I'll be outside this door if you need me." the guard informed Ward, and with a nod of answer, left.

Turning, Ward Abbott looked at the man who sat across the glass and gave him a cold and indifferent smile, "Good morning, Mr. Romanov."

Vladimir Romanov was in his mid thirties, with dark brown eyes, brown hair that had a tendency of hanging in his face, sensuous lips, and a mean scar running from his right temple to just under his jaw bone. A man whose talents centered around destruction and fear, a Russian terrorist who had just completed six months in prison after blowing up a subway terminal in New York city. But now he sat in his seat, practically lounging, hands clasped almost elegantly in his lap as if he had no shackles to hold them there, and he spoke with a smooth and pleasant voice, a rich voice that reminded one of chocolate and not of blood. "Good morning, Mr. Abbott, thank you for coming to see me."

"Well, it's not everyday that I get an invitation to visit anyone…here…" sitting, he looked about with an air of mild arrogant pleasure as he fixed the tail of his jacket, "How could I refuse."

"I'm very glad you could not." Romanov said with a polite smile.

"Do you get many visitors?" Ward asked in that arrogance only he could survive with.

Romanov smiled some more as he looked down at his hands thoughtfully, "Not very many. But I have books."

Another surge of perverse pleasure. "I'm sure you're looking forward to your chance for an appeal. I hear that it is only two weeks away."

As Romanov glanced up at these words, the first real light of interest showed in his eyes. It made them look animalistic. Like a panther that has been caged for far too long and now wished to strike. "Yes…"

"I wish you the best of luck." Abbott said, veiling a smirk. _You'll need it_,

"Thank you. I've always considered myself a very lucky man. Despite my current circumstance. You never know when you'll get a new card." Romanov said with another sure smile.

That smile caused an itch underneath Ward's skin and a very suspicious feeling was growing in the pit of his stomach. These sugar laced words were turning it like bad sushi. "Just why did you want to see me this morning, Mr. Romanov."

"Just Romanov, please, Ward." he smirked a little, "I like to keep things informal."

Ward looked on him, barely tolerant. "But why?"

"Oh, because…I admired your testimony against me _so_ much, and because it gets very lonely around here…besides, I thought, what with my appeal hearing coming up, we might be of help to each other.

The feeling was now a certainty, and it seemed that Abbott's intestines had been tied into a know with those words.

"Do you know we have televisions?" Romanov suddenly said, meeting Abbott's eyes.

Ward paused, taken by surprise and wondering just what kind of tactic this was. "Yes. I did."

"Cable TV…Satellite actually. We watch educational programs, reality shows…the news. I particularly like the news. I feel connected with the outside world; all its joys and miseries."

Abbott was getting a crawling sensation up his spine as the terrorist rattled on so.

"I especially like BBC. Excellent stories. First rate. There was one of special interest about…a month ago? Something about the CIA and deranged agents going on killing sprees or some nonsense like that. Did you see it?

Ward's left eyelid twitched as he thought of the Bourne incident. What had leaked out to the press was a fiasco and far from the truth, however, it had been no less worrisome, and no less detrimental to his wallet in order to shut it up. "I think I saw some of it yes."

Romanov's eyes glittered knowingly. "I thought you might have. You agency people have to keep close tabs on such stories. You don't want the public getting the…wrong ideas." He paused and Abbott waited, unwilling to give him any more ground. "That's why, I think, we might be of help. You see, I keep very much in touch with my people," Ward knew they were finally getting to the heart of the matter, "and they have not forgotten about me - or you for that matter, Ward." he paused, relishing that one small threat. Then, meeting the older man's suspicious eyes, he spoke in a hushed voice, "I know something you don't. And I have some_one_ that you do not. Do you…understand."

"I believe I am following." Abbott said smoothly, watching the Russian's every move.

"Good. Because, if I am going to be released upon appeal, then I will need your…understanding." He sat forward, placing his hands on the counter, clasped comfortably, their chains clanking. "You see, I do not think that you can afford not to."

"Not to what?" He demanded, in a no less demanding voice for all its subtlety.

"Offer the judge some of your _insight_ into the matter of my release." he was very confident, a gleam in his eyes that spoke volumes of it.

Ward felt that he was on very thin ice, or rather, a very precarious edge. One wrong step…"What you want is ludicrous." he said in a gravelly whisper.

"Not when there is your career to consider, your family…Your life." There was not much of a smile on Romanov's face now, more of a sneer. "_Treadstone_, Ward." he barely whispered it, it was barely audible. But it took all of Wards proud confidence away, as if a rug had been jerked out from under his feet. "You don't want that to get out." A smirk spread over the Russian's face, his teeth peeking white, "If people knew, then you yourself would be considered a terrorist. Who knows, we might even share the same cell block."

This coming from a man who knew fifteen ways to kill a person using a paperclip was of absolutely no comfort. "What do you have?"

"That's who and it's your agent. The one that went missing…In Paris."

"He's dead."

Romanov shook his head, "No. Now let's not play games. We both know he's alive. Out there. Somewhere. Another Bourne for you."

All of this information spilling out of a terrorist in a secure prison was enough to make Ward Abbott's head spin. It was enough to put fear in him. "You have him?" His voice sounded hoarse, rough like sandpaper.

"As good as. We have someone close to him. It won't be long, Ward. And it's only two weeks till my hearing." his eyes glinted like dark chocolate, but now it was tinted with the crimson color of power. "What do you say?"

He sat back and spoke in a normal volume, "Will you come see me again?"

Ward paused, thinking over the real question. The real issues. The very real dangers. He had too much to lose in order to refuse. He stood up, taking some bit of comfort as he towered over the man on the other side of the glass. "I'll consider it." And with that, he turned and left.

* * *

_First of all...I must apologize - profoundly. I am so sorry to all of you for how long it has been since I've updated, you've just been wonderful, and I am very grateful for your support and interest, especially to **morningstar67 -** don't worry, dear, I'm not giving up :) - I have to say **Thank You!** I really do intend to finish this story, life simply is hectic, especially at this time of year. This is not an excuse, just an explanation. I hope you will forgive the delay and I will do my very best to insure that it doesn't take so long for the next chappy :D_

_Now, with that said, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I did enjoy writing it. Romanov in my opinion is HOT. Even though he is bad...I've got some very interesting plans for him. Please let me know what you all thought while reading this - suggestions are appreciated, and I live on your praise, well maybe I eat and sleep here and there, but neway, praise is the desert :D Lol. Hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving, I will be seeing you soon._

_- Aranel_


	4. IV: Berlin

IV. Berlin 

The room was crowded and musty, the way most antique shops are, with the lights dimmed to a warm pale glow. There were books stacked like tumbling columns amid the glorified ruins of desks, wardrobes, chests, and shelves, all flat surfaces heaped with lamps, mismatched china, mirrors, photographs and old posters. Everything was a faded and yellowed color, dusted with a fine white powder of age.

Meanwhile, standing in the midst of the relics of the past, was a man with no present, and only a vague future.

Without papers the Professor had no name and no way of leaving the country, strangely enough, standing very much alive in the front room of one of Europe's best black market salesman, he was more dead than had he would have been as a corpse lying in a morgue, for here, no one even knew he existed.

"It is a good thing you came to me." Phillip Dietrich's voice sounded as if his vocal cords were made of parchment, frail and cracked with age, "Any one else would not have taken twice the time and cost you four times as much." the old man appeared from behind the door of the office and made his way to the counter, removing his spectacles as he went.

"I knew I could trust you to get the job done." The Professor said stoically, keeping a careful eye on the gnarly fingered tradesman. He was crafty, dealing on the black market required that as an outstanding trait.

"Trust. A dangerous commodity." the old man lifted a wary eye to the assassin, "But you know this."

The Professor said nothing, simply waited as Phillip made it to the counter and laid a narrow, elongated black leather case on the glass top. "If you want to check the work first…" and allowing him to look at the documents the old man stepped back.

Everything was in excellent order.

"They're good." he said, closing the wallet. He left it on the counter and, reaching into his breast pocket, placed a stack of green bills next to it. "Five thousand, US."

Phillip picked up the cash and, without counting it, put it in his own pocket. "I trust you." Amusement glimmered in his dark eyes and sliding the case closer to his client, "Welcome to Paris, Monsieur Niklas Friedman."

The new Niklas Friedman glanced up at Phillip, struck by the irony of that statement; upon that statement of welcome he was being given his ticket out of France completely. But he simply nodded and left. He pulled out of the alley only minutes later, heading for the border.

- - -

It was several days later and exhaustion was playing on his nerves like rowdy children on a jungle gym. The cold air kept him awake, offering some energy after his breakneck drive, and calling upon his last reserves he walked up to the hotel with his briefcase in one hand, his pistol in its shoulder holster. Looking up the street in the early gray dawn, there was almost no one about, all the party goers having gone home about an hour go, leaving the skeletal trees with their holiday lights still shining looking sad and lonely. It was a good thing, the fewer people who saw him, the better.

He stopped and did a scan of the lobby once he had entered it. Plush carpets covered the great expanse of the floor, high ceilings and ivory walls giving an even grander feel to the hotel's ambiance. His footsteps made hardly a sound as he crossed the empty room to the ornately carved desk. There the only other soul appeared as if he had sensed a new patron's presence; his suit crisp, his posture even more so.

"Good evening, mein Herr." his accent was as thick as syrup left in the cold. "How may I help you?"

"I would like a room, please. Single. Preferably with a view of the street."

The man paused, the light of the computer monitor catching the vague confusion in his eyes, "Don't you mean the lake, sir?" He asked, somewhat hesitantly since having caught on to the brusque nature of their new guest.

"No." A stoic focused expression was all the concierge received.

"Very well, sir." he looked back to the screened quickly. "We have a room on the fourth floor…How many nights, sir?"

He paused briefly, "Reserve it for a full week."

"Very well, sir. That will be…" his voice trailed off as a sizeable stack of cash was placed on the marble counter before him.

"That should cover my expenses."

"Yes, sir." and with a wisdom that could only come from living in this particular city all his life, the concierge expected the sum and thought nothing more about it. "What name, sir."

"Friedman. Niklas."

There was the clacking of computer keys and then, turning for a moment to a board hung with bits of brass, a pair of keys were proffered. "Room 408, Herr Friedman. Do you need help with your luggage?"

"No. Thank you." and taking the key, Niklas turned and went to the elevators.

- - -

The room was perfect, the view suitable, and the locks strong. The neutral colors were easy on Niklas' tired eyes as he stripped down to his undershirt and slacks before going into the bathroom and turning on the shower so the water could get hot. Meanwhile, he would take care of one more piece of business.

Sitting on the edge of the bed he dialed a number and listened to the other line ring three times before it was answered by a quiet voice gruff with sleep.

"_Ja_?"

"Peer Werner?"

"_Ja_?"

"I believe you are holding a purchase for me."

There was a pause and a rustling sound in the background as the man on the other end seemed to finally wake up. "I told you never to call me here! My own home…" His voice was an even quieter, albeit harsh, whisper.

"I would like to pick it up."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

He did not answer the obvious.

"It would have to be late."

"Good."

He seemed somewhat surprised, "And there will be the…holding fee, to be paid."

"All right."

"Twelve o'clock, tomorrow night then."

Without another word Niklas hung up, stood, and, taking the vase of flowers from the entryway table and throwing them out, balanced the empty vase on the knob. With that done, he went into the bathroom and peeled off his shirt. Tomorrow night he would begin to put his strategy into action…but for now he would wash away the aches in his muscles, shave his face, brush his teeth, and then sleep.

- - -

He was sweating in the cold of a midwinter night, his hands were trembling, and he could not stand in one place, instead pacing the walk beneath the bridge, first back and then forth. He was nervous. But Peer Werner was never nervous. Never. Except whenever he met him.

His gaze darted about, searching the shadows for movement, and he looked at his watch. It was five minutes _after _midnight. But of course, this particular patron never came when expected. That was what made Peer so anxious. He could read all his other customers, he had been in the business long enough to learn all the roles. There were the drug dealers, sick with weed and greed, the mafia, demented mixtures of paranoia and arrogance, and then there were the political activists, psychotic and obsessive. But him…he was the one he couldn't categorize. He didn't talk. He didn't do anything but order his guns, pay, and pick them up. They were small orders. But Peer knew someone big was behind him.

With his one free hand he fumbled for a cigarette and, with a flick of a gold plated lighter, lit it, pulling the smooth sweet tasting smoke down into his lungs and holding it there. For a blissful moment everything was still and calm, and then he exhaled, turning to find the one man who could unnerve him standing but a step away.

He looked like he always did, wearing a dark coat, his eyes like orbs of steel behind their spectacles, like the sight of a rifle, like the bullets in its chamber. A focused, unstoppable force.

Peer held out the case, long, slender and black, and excepted a leather wallet, thick with money, in exchange. He would not count it, he knew it would be the right amount, and besides, he didn't have time. _He _was turning and leaving, disappearing into the shadows from where he came.

"Fuck it." Peer muttered, stuffing the money into his coat pocket and taking a hard pull on his cigarette. He flicked it into the water mirror-like water and started back for his car, hoping the smell of the smoke would fade before he got home to his wife.

- - -

The clicking of chips on the felt, hopeful and dejected cries, drunken laughs, and a smooth voice singer. It was a good business night, and he had been in such a good mood. Shame that it should be spoiled so.

Reynaud blew a thick cloud of rich imported smoke out of his mouth and his nearly black brown eyes glittered broodingly as they set on the guest who was currently being frisked by his guards. More of an intruder rather than a guest, in his opinion. "Get out of here all of you." he said with a dismissal wave of his hand, tossing a winning hand of poker onto his large oaken desk. "You too Mira…" his voice was softer as he turned to the ballerina figured brunette in the tiny red dress at his shoulder.

Her glance darted suspiciously resentful to the stranger and then she moved away from him smoothly, her fingers trailing along his arm.

"So…What are you calling yourself these days?" Renard said testily as the door clicked shut.

"Does it matter?" It was the first time Niklas had spoken since he'd entered the casino owned by his less than enthused host, Renard Fomenko.

"No. But…" Renard took a drag on his cigar, "…I did have the impression we were somewhat friends. Although, I may be rethinking my position on that all together. Have a seat." he motioned to the chair in front of the table. "Cigar?" But when he received no answer he smirked dryly, "Of course not. I forget, you have no appetites." He exhaled with a sigh, "Sometimes I look at you and wonder what its like to be alive and not live…Pointless in my opinion, but then again…" he shook his head, dismissing the thought of how little it mattered to this man what his opinion was. "What brings you to my humble place of business?"

"Information."

"Of course. But about what…or should I say whom?"

"Dyusheyev."

Renard's cigar stopped just in front of his lips, his eyes locked on the assassin that sat only a few feet away from him. "Demetri Dyusheyev?"

"Yes."

He shifted in his chair, leaning forward, his eyes narrow, "You have a lot of nerve coming here, to my place, asking questions like this…Especially since you broke the rules - Your own rules!" an angry exhalation of smoke, "I think you know what I'm talking about - I thought you worked alone?"

"I do."

"Do not insult me." Renard hissed the words, pointing a finger at him. "You can keep your secrets, kill who you want, but do not lie to me!" He sat back and adjusted his black tailored tuxedo. "Don't lie to me." he muttered. "Romanov has the girl."

"What girl?"

Renard was startled by the sudden intensity of the assassin's eyes but remained unmoved. "I don't know who the hell she is. But they have her and they want you to come and get her." Renard blew a cloud of smoke and withdrawing a picture from the top drawer of his desk, he threw it onto the desk. "My men took this several days ago."

Niklas picked up the picture and looked at it. Though the woman's face was covered by a burlap sack, he still recognized her. Not by sight, but by instinct instead.

"Romanov was in prison in the US when you killed Dyusheyev, but he is patient when it comes to revenge."

Niklas' eyes darted up from the photograph with a cold gaze, "Where?"

- - -

She did not know where she was or how long she had been there. Hours, days, weeks? Time was unmarked and continuous. She was hungrier than she had ever been in her life, yet she did not think there was anything that could tempt her to eat. In between states of unconsciousness, as she was moved in unknown vehicles and by strange rough hands, as she sat bound motionless to a rough wooden chair, she wondered where she was, who had her, why, and, most of all, she wondered where Henry was and if he was safe - if he was alive.

A rough hand grabbed at the top of her head and pulled, and she shook her head free of the scratchy material she had lived within for the past interminable stretch of time. Her hair was a knotted mass in her face, and she breathed hard against the gag tied much too tightly about her mouth as she looked out from its greasy veil.

There was light here, naked and sharp, like an unsheathed blade. It stabbed at her eyes and she winced.

"You will get used to it." The voice was smooth, but rolled like water falling over stones. "Are you thirsty?" She looked up to see a silhouette, a tall, slender silhouette, who had no face or eyes, who had no soul as far as she was concerned. Her response to his question was to breathe quietly.

She drew back as he suddenly stepped forward, but his hands were inescapable as they caught hold of the gag and pulled it away from her mouth. Her jaw hurt and her teeth felt out of place in her mouth as a cup was held before her, a clear straw sticking out of it and she looked up to the man who offered it with an accusatory gaze.

"Drink." he commanded, not harshly.

With a slight tremble to her limbs that she had not bid, she took a tentative sip, and ended up coughing as if she'd taken the Nile into her throat.

"Damn it…" the voice whispered as he wiped away the water and saliva from her chin, "I told you to take proper care of her. Is _this _what you call _proper_?"

"Sorry, Vladimir."

The voice suddenly had a name. Vladimir.

Alicia looked up at him with renewed interest, trying hard to penetrate the shadows that ensconced him and find a face. He tilted his head and moved to stand sideways, throwing the light on his features, as if knowing her wish and granting it.

He was tall, certainly, and he had dark hair that hung loose and curled in to his cheekbones. High cheekbones, divided by a nose that led straight to a curved mouth. He was handsome, he could have even been beautiful had it not been for the hard darkness of his eyes, never mind the small scar that ran down his cheek.

"So, Miss Dawes, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here?"

His finger trailed along the curve of her chin, but she said nothing.

"Or perhaps you are more concerned about your nephew, Henry?"

"Henry?" Her mouth was dry as the Sahara, and her thoughts spun with terrible images. "Where is he!" she demanded.

"Don't look so alarmed. He is quite safe - with his father in London." Vladimir pulled a chair from somewhere in the shadows and brought it into the light.

All comfort disappeared in a moment as he sat before her.

"But I'm sure you're anxious to see him."

Alicia narrowed her eyes.

As if receiving the exact answer he wanted, Vladimir sat, lighting a cigarette. He held out the pack to her but she barely shook her head; she wanted nothing from him. He blew a wisp of smoke into the air. "The boy has nothing to do with the matter." his voice was cooler as he eyed her observantly, pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket, "Do you recognize this man?"

The change in subject was not a change in reality. Alicia knew that. She stared at the man Vladimir as her stomach did a series of flips worthy of an Olympic gold medal and then looked at the photo. It was a quarter profile view of none other than Jeremy Cale…Her pupils dilated.

"I'll take that as a yes."

She looked up at Vladimir, confusion making her green eyes cloudy. "He was Henry's piano tutor." That was the only way the two were connected - but this man seemed to make more of it.

"I know that - that was his cover while he was stationed in London" He fixed her with a gaze as hard as iron. " What else?"

Her brows furrowed and she shook her head, confused, "I don't know anything else."

Another phantom cloud of smoke. "Nothing, Alicia? Miss Alicia Dawes…" he looked at her from beneath his eyelids. "I know that cannot be true."

A crawling sensation ran up her spine, it was fear, and it sent tremors through her muscles.

"Our friend here…" he tapped the photograph, "…He doesn't have friends, or lovers - he is all about business. So…" his eyes slid back up to her face, "…When he says a name, it means something. Do you have something you want to tell me now?"

As if they were bees in a beehive, Alicia's thoughts swarmed and sped. She didn't know anything. She thought she had known a man - but she hadn't. Apparently all she knew were lies. There was no comfort in that. There was no help. Adrenaline raced through her blood and her toes curled in her shoes. Her eyes burned, wet, and she looked past the shadowy man in front of her with a hard set gaze. She couldn't tell him anything anyway.

Vladimir watched her with a carefully guarded gaze, and he saw the furtive tear that slipped from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. "All right…" his voice returned to that soft whisper as he stood, straightening slowly, "I see that you need some more time to collect your thoughts." His eyes roved over her, slowly devouring. "Perhaps you would care for some dinner?" He turned away abruptly, hiding the hungry gleam in his eyes, not allowing her a chance to answer. "George. Bring her upstairs."

Alicia's trepidation was compacted by the entrance of a large blonde man into the garish circle that was her prison. She cringed as he untied the bonds, his reply that of a leering smirk and she fisted her hands uselessly.


	5. V: Rescue

* * *

AN:

LONG time in coming, I know, my apologies. I'm not quite happy with this, but every time I went to touch it I would just mess it up and end up not saving the changes. I hope that you all enjoy it. Feedback is appreciated and very VERY helpfull. Many many thanks to those who have alerted, favorited, and/or reviewed this story. My love to you all! Enjoy!

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**Chapter 5: Rescue**

Alicia was cringing all the way up the stairs. The building was musty and she could hear rats and termites in the walls - or so she imagined. And the very wood beneath her feet whimpered, as if it would break any second. But she would rather have fallen to the concrete floor below than to have made it to the top. In the office, behind the door painted a rusting vermillion color, Vladimir was waiting for her. She wondered what sensation made her stomach flip as the door swung open and what the sour taste in the back of her mouth was. But as she saw the dark man and the small table with a single grimy lantern sitting in the middle of it, she knew what it was, fear.

"Do have a seat." His voice was silken charm and she knew that under other circumstance she might have been fooled into finding him attractive. But the rough handling of his henchman as he propelled her over to the chair kept her fully aware of what her situation was, and Vladimir's hissing reprimand in Russian did nothing to reassure her. She sat at the table, woodenly, staring past the plate of roast beef and boiled potatoes, on into the lantern's small darting flame.

"It is humble fare, but I am glad you will share it with me." He sat and put a red silk napkin across one knee. So well mannered, so deviant. She followed the scar that ran down his face like a wicked streak of lightening - revealing.

"You are not hungry, Alicia?" He

"It's Miss Dawes." She didn't raise her voice, she couldn't with the cottony ball of anxiety clogging her throat. Despite his attempt to distract her she had, indeed, heard the click of the door as his brute had left them - alone.

"I apologize. Miss Dawes." Consideration, nothing malevolent. He cut into his meat. "You do not trust me, and I cannot blame you for that. But..." he sighed, as if weighted with some heavy heart's burden, "But you trust this man." he tapped the picture that lay on the table by his plate. The second course perhaps?

She straightened her shoulders, it felt as if her muscles were dried rubber. But she gave no more response than this. He deserved none.

He nodded his head though, discerning, even agreeing. "Of course you would, I, I am the man who is holding you hostage in some dirty rundown warehouse, and he..." He picked out a shred of meat from between his teeth with his tongue, "He is the man who taught your nephew piano." The sound of his knife tearing the flesh on his plate seemed to punctuate this statement. "I can picture him, in his clean suit, sitting only inches from your nephew - Did you know that he can blow a man's brains out from a mile away? With the right weapon of course."

This made her eyes widen with shock. His subtle tone had slipped into her mind like smoke under a door, rising to form the picture for her, manipulating her mind. A small tremor passed through her, anger being what she hung onto. She wouldn't listen to him!

"I have seen him do it. He killed my father, Miss Dawes." He took a bite of his food, swallowing it with unveiled ferocity, not bothering to chew. She knew he was imagining doing the same thing to Jeremy. "Not my real father, no - but a man more akin to me than my own blood." He looked at her from across the table, his dark eyes searching for hers, his voice persistent. "But he has killed more. And he sat and played piano with your nephew."

She focused on a spot on the wall, staring there, trying not to give her attention to anything he said. But it was very hard not to hear him.

"I know what you're thinking. There had to be a reason, right? And of course there was, Miss Dawes. There is always a reason. For some it is justice, duty, or freedom...survival is the most primal - But him...his was money - the most obscene." He hissed the word as if he could taste the sin on his tongue. "And you trust _him_?"

Alicia didn't want to hear any more, so she spoke before he could say anything else, her voice dry. "I do not know him." She hated the strength of her desire to cry, and she directed her hate in a pointed yet glistening glare at her captor. "A point which you have made all too clear."

This wasn't what Vladimir had wanted to hear. He had wanted to break her, and by all appearances he had, but she still did not give him what he wanted to know. Did she really know nothing? "Why did he ask for you then, Miss Dawes?"

She shook her head, closed her eyes, and shrugged.

Impatience started to get the better of him at this point. Suddenly it was all too clear, the man who had no heart, no soul; the murderer, had gone and gotten himself a crush - perhaps even a love. It was pathetic, it made him sick, but more than that, it was a moment of defeat, because now he was right back to where he had started. Now, he had as much power to go after the Professor as he had had in prison.

The feeling of hepless incompetence coupled with an insane drive to accomplish an end was a maddening one. It was also familiar. He had endured its insanity every day during his imprisonment. He looked over at Alicia with a dark look. The light flickered across her wet eyes, her face pale and drawn, exhaustion was taking its toll on her beauty. So he realized, she was of absolutely no value to him anymore. Except for...

He sat back in his chair with an audible breath of frustration. "I believe you at last, Miss Dawes, you do not know anything about him, where he is, or who his contacts might be. This comforts you, does it not?"

The edge in his voice, the watchfulness of his dark eyes renewed Alicia's wariness. She took stock of him and decided that it was best to say nothing, not yet.

The dark brows that so perfectly framed his eyes came low and closer together as he narrowed his gaze at her, "It shouldn't." he pushed himself out of the chair and began making a large circle of the room, stepping in and out of light, a shadow, a panther waiting to leap out and kill, devour.

Alicia's heart beat faster.

"Now, all we can do is wait - and wait we will - for him to come to us. Because? Because, apparently, even though you do not know anything about him, he knows something about you and it is important to him - He will come for you, Miss Dawes," suddenly he was behind her, his arms coming around her, his hands gripping the frail arms of her chair, "But he will be too late."

It was simultaneous, the widening of her eyes, his taking a hard hold of her arms and whirling her around, kicking the chair away. It skidded and crashed into the wall where it shattered, and she was thrown after it. But where she too would have been relieved to have shattered into a thousand splinters, she was whole, and wholly left vulnerable to the villain who came after her. He pulled her up by her arms and she bit her lip to the blood as he slammed her against the wall.

He was against her, plastered like some dirty paint, his mouth hot and wet on her skin, her throat, her ear - his fingers pulling at her shirt and then her skirt. Her struggles were disconnected, incoherent like her thoughts, memories, dreams, and nightmares - utterly useless.

Then the windows were shattered, pieces of the worm eaten wood flying about the room, as there were screams. No report for the bullets, only from their victims. It was a short burst, but it was effective. Vladimir gripped his arm with one hand, blood coating his fingers like a glove, and with the other he grabbed Alicia and pulled her up off the floor and towards the stairs. There was something large in their path and, with a backward glance, Alicia saw that it was Vladimir's George, and that he was dead.

- - -

He hadn't killed Romanov. Not that he had been aiming to do so, he couldn't as long as he was so close to - her. He had delivered a spray of bullets from the roof of the next building into Romanov's warehouse/lair. Sending confusion, injury, and most probably death as effective emissaries. Then, clicking the safety on, he'd slung the sniper's rifle across his shoulder, and started down the rust clad stairs of the abandoned building's fire escape.

The alley was wet and dark, smelling of garbage and refuse. He kept close to the building making his way around to the dock; the exit he was ninety percent sure Romanov would use. There was a fog hanging over the water, but he could still see the boat, and soon he saw them.

- - -

The air was cold and damp, or perhaps these were the side effects of shock, because even while Alicia felt the cold, sweat had broken out on her forehead, her hands, every pore was exuding water. Vladimir propelled her forward, held before him like a sheild - coward! She would have closed her eyes so as not to see the bullet that would be her death coming, but again, shock held her eyes wide open. And before her she saw the river, and a boat. A swirling sensation made her want to turn and run back, but Vladimir pushed her forward. She was going to die!

- - -

It was the best shot he was going to get. The only one before it would be too late. So he knelt, adjusted the scope, aimed, and squeezed the small metal lever.

He could hear the slicing of the air. Could see the invisible path that led from the muzzle of his weapon, to the artery in the hollow of Romanov's shoulder. The spot just above Alicia's head.

- - -

He was about to force her into the boat. The craft was rocking and the water was crooning, the siren's call of death. She had a terrible feeling that her end lay on the deck of that little fiberglass boat, but there was no escaping the vice like grip on her arm. The water lapping against the dock sent slick spray up onto her legs, making her footing unsure. She slipped, falling at an odd, leg splaying, angle, pulling Vladimir down with her. That was when she heard it. The loud solid yet liquid splat. That was when she felt the water spray her face, warm and thick. It rolled down her face leisurely, just as a Vladimir cried out, clapping a hand to his head, and fell into the water.

As his grip fell from her arm, she jumped back and screamed, covering her mouth. There was a rusty taste on her lips and she realized it was his blood that was on her face. But then there was a new grip on her arm, a glance of green, and she was being pulled away from the dock, running down the snow lined pavement, around the corner of the building and down a darker alley.

Her mind was not working, only her feet, as she followed the green eyed savior. Then there was a car, small and black, and she was urged into it. Strapped into the passenger seat, speeding away from the warehouse that had been her prisoner, Alicia looked over to find the driver and her rescuer none other than...Jeremy Cale. There was a burning sensation in her chest, and a chill passed through her limbs, leaving her numb as her thoughts raced.

But the roaring of an excelerating vehicle brought her attention to the car that was chasing them. Bullets were spewed after them, as well as a Russian epithet for good measure. But they evaded both, whipping around a corner and onto the main street. Grey was the morning, so familiar, the dim light. She closed her eyes and saw a little parlor with a piano. But then a bullet shattered the back glass.

A hand pushed her head down, between her knees, the touch firm and warm. But she shrunk from it, wrapping her arms about her knees and letting her hair cascade about her face in an attempt to hide. _Do not trust_, her mind told her before it ran away again. They were swerving, tires squealing as they took a ninety degree turn at seventy miles per hour. She was glad she hadn't eaten anything, otherwise she would be choking on more than just bile.

A horn blared near her door and she let out a cry of fear as she envisioned a car pounding crashing into them. But danger was averted with a quick wrenching of the wheel, and she glanced up at the man who was driving.

His eyes were set forward, their green irises glinting in the growing light, his mouth set with determination. She peeked into the back seat and saw the gleaming rifle lying across the seat.

"Hold on." the command came succinct and controlled. She couldn't help but obey, looking out over the dashboard with anxious anticipation. There was a bridge ahead. For a moment that was all it was, but then Alicia noticed that something was different about it. She then realized that the arms were down; instruction to stop. She looked down the river and saw a boat coming up. Bracing herself she looked from the bridge to driver and back, with unveiled horror.

He pressed the gas pedal. Making the car accelerate at the last minute as they crashed through the barriers. Stifling the instinct to scream, Alicia simply ducked her head as they went up the bridge, now a slope as it was being pulled from the boat's path - providing them a ramp. She knew the moment they were airborn. There was an emptiness beneath her feet, as if she could fall into space. The kind of sensation one got when they were at the top of the ferris wheel at the county fair or when the plane first levelled out after take-off. She held her breath, squinting her eyes and silently prayed as she felt the pull of gravity.

Sparks shot up over the hood as the front bumper contacted the pavement. Alicia nearly cracked her head on the dashboard and the engine made a funny noise as Jeremy changed gears. Once more they were speeding off.

"Do you see them?"

Alicia's brain spun as she slowly turned in her seat, eyes darting from one side of the road to the other, searching for the black car carrying their persuants. It was nowhere to be seen.

"No." She breathed. But upon turning and settling back into her seat, the information finally registering with her, she felt nothing close to safe. She looked at her 'rescuer' and recalled what her former captor had said..."Is it true?"

The silence was permeable. His glance brief, yet eternal.

He saw the fear in her eyes, the wariness as she leaned back against the door. He saw her see him for what he really was. He looked back to the road.

"Yes."

Alicia averted her eyes, but could not move any other part of her body. She was stiff with fear and...disillusionment. There was no way out of the moving vehicle, and even if there was, where would she go? She was in a foreign country, she had no money, no friends, and now, on top of everything else, it had started to rain.


	6. VI: Shades of Grey

AN: At last! A new update! The Professor and Alicia - alone in a hotel room! Ooh....steamy? Read and see!

ps. I know this chap is shorter than the previous, however, I've got more written and there will be another post before this week's end - and you can hold me to that! I'm very excited, have gotten so much written. But never mind my blabbing - Onto the story!

::Rated **M **for Language and Mature Themes::

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**Chapter VI: Shades of Grey**

The world was a watercolor. The rain blurring and muddling everything, shadows and light mixed and blotched.

Details were lost.

Alicia sat silent, cold and pale, she felt pale. Especially sitting beside the dark figure driving the car. The street lights played across his face, at interventions, illuminating his set features, focused eyes. He looked so normal - but he was anything but.

Looking down at her lap, trying to redirect her thoughts, Alicia was confronted by dark stains spattered all across her skirt. She stretched her fingers out to cover them, feeling her heart speed involuntarily. She looked back out the window, tracing raindrops as they sped down the glass.

"How did you know where I was?" She broke the silence out of sheer desperation. She needed to hear something other than the sound of gunshots reverberating in her head. But more than that, she needed answers.

The other side of the car was quiet, as if her fellow occupant had to extricate himself from his silence. Then, finally, "A friend."

"I need to get to Henry." It was more of a demand than observation.

"No. He'll be safer without you."

His voice was monotone. She looked at him incredulously. "What?"

"They'll come after us."

"They'll come after you!" She shook her head and bit her lip against an onslaught of harsh words - words tainted by intense anger, betrayal, and bone deep fear. "This is all because of you." It was a whisper, but it was also an undeniable truth.

Even he couldn't deny it. "I can't apologize."

A strange, sharp feeling in the middle of her chest made it hard to breathe. "I wouldn't expect you too."

Her warm breath fogged the cold glass, leaving shards in his chest.

But she wouldn't know it. She looked intently out at the buildings they passed, the streets and the people walking alongside it, life and all its normalcy just out of her grasp. Now was when they had the most in common, but, still.

"I can't believe this is happening."

He saw her swipe at her cheek. There was a dark smear on her cheekbone, and a dried stain on her temple.

"Why -" she sucked in a shakey breath, "Why did you come after me?"

There was silence. The answer was there. Perhaps she even suspected it. But he couldn't answer her, not with the truth. He couldn't survive the truth, not as an assassin, not as an anything. But he couldn't lie either.

So the question hung, and she abandoned it with a weight in her stomach and a lump in her throat. "Fine." She shouldn't expect an answer anyway, not from him. Seconds passed. "I don't even know your bloody name." The realization hit her and she felt another bloody tear run down her face. "Fuck." She didn't bother with it, but she was glad to feel the car slow, a large blob of light to her right their apparent destination, an opportunity to divert her attention; it helped stem the abominable tears.

The rain roared as the driver door opened, and then it wet her face as her own did. She stepped out into the downpour, numb, barely aware of the trenchcoat that was draped over her shoulders, or the hand that took hold of her elbow, propelling her safely across the street and into the lights of the hotel. Barely aware of the thoughts and feelings racing through her blood.

- - -

She didn't pull away when he put his coat on her, covering the stains, sheilding her from more than just rain, or even when he touched her. But he knew how far away she was from him.

The concierge was polite but disinterested as they entered the elevator like any other couple, going to their room for sleep...or otherwise. The ordinariness of the whole situation's appearance bordered on mockery. Not even he could miss the irony.

He unlocked the room with a swipe of a card, and guided Alicia inside, turning only to slip the deadbolt in place.

He left her standing in the middle of the entryway, statuesque, as he deposited his elongated breifcase on the circular table, in the middle of the room, its content available if needed, before leading her to the edge of the lone double bed.

She showed minute interest in her surroundings as he turned to the bathroom, but the room deserved little more. It was plain at best, the attempted warmth a miss; neutral ground at best. He returned with the bowl that had held fruit, now filled with warm water and four ounces of vodka.

He brought a chair over and sat in front of her, dampening the cloth and methodically cleaning her face, careful and gentle as a surgeon. But he could not meet her eyes. Even an assassin has his weaknesses. He focused on the spatter and her own minute scratch, the one running along her jaw just under her left ear.

"It stings." She said in a hoarse hiss of breath.

That was life. He said nothing, aware she was studying him, her eyes full of distrust and hate.

"Are you going to kill me?"

He looked up, confirming his suspicion. Her eyes were hard as glass, glistening, challenging, as if she was daring him to do it there and then.

As if he could.

He didn't say anything. He just stared back at her, taking her features in, allowing himself to see her, really see her, and remember.

He felt his heart beat an extra pulse. But there was no outward sign - there couldn't be. He stood and turned away, setting the bowl on the nightstand, the rose colored water so innocent looking in his wake.

He didn't see the tear that slipped down her cheek when he turned away, a single drop that evaporated in the silence. He simply pulled out one of his shirts, white, creases pressed hard, and a pair of boxers, neatly folded, and placed them on the bed beside her. "You should rest." he advised, and then stepped onto the balcony, leaving her to some privacy, knowing she wouldn't leave, knowing she would be practical and shower, change, and then sleep.

Wondering if he ever would.

- - -

She did shower, and change into his clothes, she didn't run away; she was practical that way.

But she was also human, and prone to emotion and weakness. Such humanity that the faint trace of his cologne made the back of her throat burn, and that his presence on the couch, so close, kept her awake till the red numbers of three o'clock glared at her.

Such weakness that made her wish, hope in some corner of her heart, that he knew some semblance of the same.

She hoped that he had a spot of frailty in that cold, hard, mechanical psychy of his. She hoped that he had a soul, a heart, in that body. But how could he? How could anyone who did what he did - who killed - have those things? But the way he had looked at her when she'd asked if he intended to kill her...  
She was a fool! Thinking those things, holding onto such stupid, misguided thoughts...holding onto lies. She was a fool on her way to a fool's end.

But she could smell the leather and wood polish of her library back home, and she could feel the warmth of his lips on hers as she made herself close her eyes. And she remembered that she had seen a man, that there was one inside of him, and it haunted her as she slept and lingered when she woke.

Dozing in and out, she lost sense of what was dream and reality for the night.

She was weak, afraid...human, and she just didn't know what to do.

- - -

The hotel room was eerily silent as dawn approached. The sky was dark, slowly fading to a blue grey, Jeremy sat in the shadows, his weapon nearby - but Alicia's presence was more poignant. Never had that happened before.

Aware of the deceptive nature of their present safety, he remained on the couch, his senses trained to the world around him. The faint hum of the mini-fridge, the faint smell of snow on the windowpane, the echoes of traffic from the street, the faint pink glow from the alarm clock, but most prominent, the hushed rush of breath as Alicia slept.

Against his better judgement he looked across the room and saw her face, a pale porcelain in the straining light. From somewhere in his haunted mind a vision came; a woman wearing a slip of a white dress, her hair flying free, fingertips stretched towards fireflies. She looked fragile and a strange feeling ran through him like a crack in stone.

He looked away, a sound registering in the distance. There were footsteps in the outside hall, and a knock on the door. His muscles tensed, and he went to stand - stopping as he heard a door open, realizing that it was someone else's room service.

But he was not at ease - he didn't know when he would be. He had no place of safety, he didn't even have a mark. All he had were people trying to kill him and others hoping they would succeed.

Would they?

For a moment he considered death. Picturing himself lying pale and cold in some dim and grey place, vaguely placed in the future, he assessed his reaction. There was no quickening of his heart, there was no spasm of fear to clutter his brain, there was nothing but slow, clear apathy. He didn't care if they succeeded or not. The revelation was not alarming.

A breath. It was Alicia, she made a worried sound between a moan and sigh, turning in her sleep. His eyes tracked a path to her, begrudgingly, and feet followed. Tangled in the dingy white sheets painted cool blue by the street lights was the only thing to make dying a thing undesirable.

Alicia being left to the mercy of Vladimir's people - the woman chasing fireflies to be eaten by wolves - he couldn't allow that to happen. The sense of responsibility surprised him. Although it shouldn't have. Not after he had been acting under its influence ever since he'd first found out that Alicia had been taken.

He didn't realize that he had knelt before her, that he was watching her intently, counting the measures of her breath, until her hazel eyes were unveiled.

Glassy with the dregs of fitful sleep, it was a long moment before she herself seemed to realize what was happening. Even then, she did not move, only blinked, and stared up at him.

Fragile. Unprotected. Her hair thrown over the pillow, revealing her creamy throat, the lobe of her ear, the smooth line of her jaw - her fingers were curled around the corner of her pillow, as if she was ready to hide behind it, and flee the monsters of night.

Then why didn't she run from the one kneeling at her side?

He thought he could hear her heart, beating fast. He imagined he could see it jump beneath her nearly translucent skin, lighting her eyes, flushing her lips...But she stayed. He brushed away the lock of hair that fell across her forehead, his powers of restraint nulled by her presence. It was just a simple touch, one that lengthened into a faint stroke of her cheek.

Her lips parted, he heard the words echoing in her mind. But before she could speak, there was a whistle over their heads - and she screamed.


	7. VII: Stripped

**Chapter VII: Stripped**

Every thing happened too fast.

Rolling off the bed, ducking for cover, Jeremy shoving her shoes and coat into her arms and making a mad dive for his rifle.

Alicia could hardly think, she could hardly steady her fingers enough to put her heels back on.

Feathers from the bed and plaster from the walls fell, like snow. Alicia huddled between the bed and nightstand, crowded against the wall as Jeremy threw open the case. It was a fascinating thing, watching him assemble the gun, taking seconds, his fingers practically blurring. How much practice had it taken for him to become so fast? Alicia wondered.

He then propped the gun on the edge of the overturned mattress and took aim. He seemed unaffected by the barrage of bullets and the rain of wall. He took his time, looking through the scope, his finger curling around the trigger. Alicia watched his chest, breaths even. Was his heart possibly beating as fast and hard as hers?

No.

Looking at the man behind the gun, she saw a machine. Machines had no hearts. In that moment, the moment that Jeremy squeezed the trigger, Alicia was more afraid of him than any one bullet.

She went numb. He packed the weapon away as fast as he'd unpacked it. Then, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.

Alicia had no choice but to follow him. Down the hall, down the stairs, through the lobby, weaving through the frantic crowd gathering outside as police sirens screamed. Only one question made it through her own worried attempts at rational thought. _Did he kill him? _

Of course he had.

But Jeremy seemed to think otherwise. They were racing down the stairs, Alicia nearly tripping behind his ground eating strides, and he continued to check every sound. Alicia began to expect an assassin around every corner.

Yet they made it to the lobby. But Jeremy took them away from the double doors, beyond which Alicia could see police gathering, and went through the kitchen. The back exit where deliveries were made had yet to be blocked off, but sirens called not too far away. They doubled their time, disappearing into the cold grey of dawn.

Alicia shied away from the looks of the few strangers that were walking down the same sidewalk as them. She kept her head down, it was heavy with the weight of a million thoughts. The straight, rigid hold of Jeremy's shoulders made her angry, he seemed as concerned with his surroundings as the brick walls around them.

Why was she following after him blindly?

The question was swallowed as they descended into the subway.

He pulled her in the car after him, and guided her to one of the corner seats, away from the scattered commuters, away from the harshest of the fluorescent lights. Standing between her and the aisle, he braced himself against the rocking and took an assessment of her. She didn't appear to be injured, but her face was ashen. "Are you alright?"

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes hard, wet with venomous tears. Had he really asked that question. "I trusted you!" It was a hiss, she couldn't contain her thoughts any longer, "And then I'm kidnapped and the people tell me that it's because of you, they tell me that you're a murderer, and then, you prove them right." The tears now fell freely, mixing with the half sob laughter choking in her throat, "But you do it while saving me. Is that supposed to make me grateful?" She shook her head. "Is that supposed to make it right?"

"There is no reason to make it right. I'm not looking for one."

"But maybe I am." Her breath was ragged, "There has to be a reason that you do what you do."

"There is. It's all I can do."

"That's a lie. You can do something else. You have a choice, and you know it."

His gaze pinned her like a butterfly to a wall, "The man I once was is dead. I killed him. There's no going back."

"Then explain why you came after me?" She was leaning forward, desperate for something to feed her hope.

There was a long moment of silence. He abandoned the last shreds of safety. "Because you make me wish that I could go back. I came because you were my salvation." He looked away from her, wincing. Alicia struggled to breath, her eyes flickering over him, trying to understand. What she found was a growing stain of dark fluid she knew to be blood on the front of his coat.

"Oh my God, you're...you're bleeding..." She touched it, as if to stop it, but only got her fingers bloody. "You need a hospital."

"No hospitals. I know a doctor." He looked back down at her. "I don't feel any remorse for them, don't imagine that I do."

"I don't believe that." Her gaze did not waver as it held his. "I think you feel a lot more than you wish you did. I think you're afraid of it." She said the last as she realized it.

"Of what?"

"Of having more of a soul than you would like."

She was like a scalpel. With those simple words she stripped him. He was glad to feel the subway slowing. "This is us."

But Alicia knew that she had stumbled across the truth, that she was closer than she had ever been to him. That was why he started pushing her away. Once upon a time this man had been hurt, and the discovery proved that he was indeed more human than he acted.

They were on a questionable side of town, the buildings facades were crumbling, the sidewalks littered with dirty snow and cigarette butts. As they neared the apartment, their destination, Jeremy had to lean on Alicia for support. She rapped her fist againt the oak door, and teetered on the edge of the step beneath his weight. When the door opened she exhaled, not even realizing that she had been holding her breath.

A pair of spectacled brown eyes took the two of them in. But the man with the white beard didn't ask any questions, just pulled them inside. "Wait here, fraulein." he said with a thick German accent.

Alicia stood listless in the small den, watching after the doctor and Jeremy as they went down a narrow hallway, disappearing into a small bedroom. She looked about the room, barely furnished, and finally sat down on the rigid sofa.

Contenting herself with making various knots with her fingers, she listened for any sound from that bedroom. But none came. The silence was worse than any groan or holler of pain she could have heard. She thought a lot, too much, and wondered if she had done anything right since meeting Jeremy.

The wiry doctor's reappearance was a welcome interruption to her broody worrying. He answered her question before she even had to ask it.

"It was not a terrible wound. No vital organs were damaged. Some rest and he will be good as new. He is lucky." He looked at the girl, taking in her worn appearance. "You must be tired. The bathroom is just down the hall, there are towels, some of my wife's clothes are in the closet. Feel welcome." He went towards the door, Alicia following him. "We are divorced, like everyone else in Germany." He grunted as he threaded his arms into his thick coat, winding a scarf around his neck.

Alicia watched him, head spinning. She didn't want to be left alone in this apartment.

"There is breakfast on the table, cold I'm afraid, but you did come before I had the chance to eat it." he cracked a grin, "Lucky for you. I make very good eggs." Picking up a black bag, his hand went to the door. "I will be back in a few hours. Guten daag."

And the door clicked shut behind him, the lock sliding into place. Alicia looked around, her eyes inevitably drawn to the room where Jeremy was. She went towards it, but stopped without going in, or even opening the door. After a moment of staring at the wood grain, she turned to the opposite door, finding the bathroom with afore mentioned towels and closet of clothes. Locking it behind her, she started to run the shower.

Warm water licked her skin, rinsing away the aches and fatigue. She washed her hair in a German shampoo, working a rich lather as the spiced fragrance filled the room. Drying off, she searched for something to wear. Most all the articles were dresses, several years old. She decided on a plain grey with short sleeves and knee length hiem. It was comfortable, a winter dress, wool if the itch was correct. Pulling her wet hair over her shoulder she left the bathroom.

The door across from her was open, light spilling through a small gauzily draped window. How long had she been in the bathroom? But other thoughts were pushed aside as she peeked around the doorway.

She found Jeremy sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to put his shirt back on. There was gauze wrapped around his midsection, but all it seemed to do was divide two sections of scarred skin and muscle. Pale flecks of raised tissue littered Jeremy's broad back, rippling as he attempted to put his shirt back on. He had only succeeded in getting on one sleeve. He made a small sound of pain as he tried to dress his other arm.

Alicia stepped forward, crossing the distance silently, the bed creaking finally gave her presence away as she knelt behind him. It startled both of them. Jeremy hesitated, and her breath stopped in her lungs as the back of her finger brushed his shoulder. He shrugged into the shirt, and she scooted off the bed as quickly as possible, straightening her skirt.

"Thank you." He said without turning.

"You're welcome." She went to the window, looking back at him just in time to see more scars. "How many do you have?"

He glanced up, then back down, seeming to know exactly what she was talking about. "A few." He didn't want to talk about the scars.

"A few?" she laughed, and scratched her head, turning to the window again. "A few." The seconds ticking only proved a growing discomfort. She thought about breakfast, a good excuse to leave, but she couldn't eat anything.

"What's wrong?" Jeremy watched her, tapping her knee against the wall, nervous. Her hair hung down her back in wet tendrils, when she turned and looked at him he envied the sunlight for touching it.

"Isn't it obvious?" She bit her lip, thoughtful, "You said I was your salvation...what did you mean by that?"

Silence was her only answer.

Her arms fell to her side as she decided it was better to try and choke down some breakfast than endure this torture.

Yet Jeremy caught her arm, stopping her. The brush of skin against skin sloughed off cells and he could smell her, clean and warm. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of her neck. Instead he looked into her eyes and tried to answer her question. "I meant what I said, I can't go back, but maybe, with you...I don't know...I might be able to go forward."

Neither moved. Jeremy tried not to latch onto the hope her words offered. The truth was he was an assassin, a killer, and he didn't belong with someone like Alicia. The best thing he could do for her was get her back to England once he killed the person behind that morning's attack. But still...she was right. He had a soul. And that soul needed her. No matter how he tried to deny it.

"I'm scared." She said it quietly, her eyes dancing across the room, but always returning to him.

Jeremy should have known.

"But not of you."

He was caught off guard.

"I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid that I'm fool enough to trust you. I am afraid that I'm stubborn enough not to. I'm afraid-"

He silenced her with his lips. Her voice faded into a soft sound beneath him. He pulled her in close molding her body against his, soft and warm. He took a breath close to her cheek and held her smell deep inside his lungs, close to his heart as it sped.

She pressed her hands against his chest, but not to push him back. They curled in the folds of his blood-stained shirt, and then wrapped around him as she let herself be drawn even closer. He felt strong against her, but the way his heart beat beneath her hand proved he was vulnerable.

There was a demand in the pull of his lips, the searching of his tongue as it wound around her own. He had waited a long time for her kiss. Soon they were a tangle, his hands mussing her hair, mouths travelling, breaths mingling hotly. They fell back on the bed, Jeremy turning so that Alicia was beneath him, her hair sprawling, her hazel eyes warm lights in the grey sunlight. He pulled back and looked at her for a long time, and then slowly bent his head to take a slow, deep kiss, taking her taste in, reaquainting himself with it.

He wanted her so badly. But this was not the time, not the place. There was only one person he really trusted, and he wasn't about to risk her in the heat of the moment. He rolled over to the side, and then pulled her close.

"What's wrong?" Alicia shifted, trying to catch her breath as her pulse pounded in her ears.

"Nothing. Just stay here with me." He wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger, and then closing his eyes, savored the feel of her against him.

An odd sensation of relief chased the feeling of regret away. She'd not had a human pillow in a long time, and it was nice to hear that pounding beneath her ear. It was a deep lullaby, a perfect rhythm. The touch of his hand in her hair sent tingles over her scalp and she smiled against his shirt.

Tentative, she relaxed her hand on his chest, fingers splaying, the warmth seeping through the layers of her epidermis, into the muscle, travelling into her veins. The sunlight was almost too bright outside, making the white curtains glow, and when she closed her eyes she could still see it. It was an orangey pink light, warm, and safe.

Feeling her rest completely against him was the best thing that Jeremy had ever felt. Fear teased the edge of his rational thought, but he pretended that there was nothing to fear, that there was no one to run from. He pretended that they could lay like that forever. He pretended that he would never wear armor again.

His waking dream bled into his unconscious, the seed of a new reality.

* * *

**AN**: **I beg forgivness for the horrendous wait guys! I would like to thank all you wonderful reviewers for your much needed support. I couldn't have gotten through the brick wall that this chapter was without it. **

**I would also like to thank my beta, Annawanthat2. I'm so excited to finally have gotten this chapter written! Radiohead's 'House of Cards', Shiny Toy Gun's 'Stripped', and Snow Patrol's 'Chasing Cars' were/are the soundtrack for this chap. Good music never hurt anyone ;) Hope you all enjoyed! **


	8. VIII: Numb

**Chapter VIII: Numb**

Scars, Romanov was covered with them, both physically and mentally. Now he would have a new one. He inspected it in the mirror. It criss-crossed the one that ran along the side of his head. It made a mad x, or crucifix, however one chose to look at it. He should have died from the bullet. If that bitch hadn't fallen he would have. Vladimir thanked God for small miracles.

He smirked at the cross in the windowpane, his shaved head gleaming, and then turned away with a dark look to the man sitting in the leather chair. "You know where he is, don't you, Renard?"

A hostage in his own office, within his own casino, Renard lounged in his chair, despite the 9 millimeter to his head. "A man like him doesn't need to inform me of his whereabouts."

"Mmhmm." Vladimir smiled. "But he trusts you. Because you help him." He threw the picture of Alicia being taken into the warehouse onto the desk.

"I help all of my connections." Renard said evenly, poker faced.

"And you think I can't hurt you because of your many connections." Romanov nodded his head, irked that it was, indeed, the truth. Renard and his kind were the reason revolutions were lost. Their own agendas of greed...such a small picture. Always conflicting with those striving towards the grander. Vladimir sat on the edge of the desk, fingering the fine wood thoughtfully. The casino was very fine, it was too bad that its owner should have bet against him. He would have loved to have tortured and killed Renard himself, but he would have to settle on another. Only looking up slightly, he gave a nod to George's replacement, and the man left the room.

Renard glanced after him, but his gaze was cool and disinterested.

Romanov met his gaze with a smirk, "Don't worry. He'll be right back."

As expected, the game changed when his man returned.

Renard tried to stand, but a heavy hand held him to his seat, the cold steel of the gun pressing firmly into his temple. He could only watch as Mira, his Mira, was forced into the room, her slight figure miniatured by the hulk of the man holding her arms.

Romanov's smirk broadened, seeing the reaction he so desired. "I love women." He confessed, and stepped over to the girl.

Her face was a stoney mask as she looked off into the distance. She was very strong, Romanov could tell, but he would break her if need be, just as surely as he would break Renard. "You are very pretty." He whispered. With a glance over at Renard he held a knife up so that it winked in the light. He touched the point to the girl's earlobe, and she flinched. Renard's jaw clenched visibly. "Very pretty." He nodded to the one holding her, and Mira was drug across the rug and tied to a chair positioned right in front of Renard. "I hope you don't mind if I make you a little more comfortable, _dorogaya moya_. Your boyfriend is a very stubborn man...This might take a while.

Once the tying was done, Vladimir knelt behind the girl, his chin at her shoulder, the knife hanging listlessly in his hand. He sighed, looking at Renard, his cruel eyes taking on a cat-shine.

Renard held the gaze, aware of Mira's panicky breath. He couldn't bluff his way out of this. The stakes were too high this time. With the deep pang of regret, he acknowledged the loss and the fact that he would have to fold.

It was raining when Jeremy woke, a lulling patter on the window sill. It was the best sleep he had ever had, but the view to which he awakened was better.

Alicia was sprawled against him, her face peaceful, her hand gathered in his shirt, her leg wrapping around one of his own. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. At the unexpected but familiar scent of a Russian cigarette, his eyes snapped open.

"Good morning."

Renard Fomenko sat in the chair in the corner of the room. His eyes were like banked embers in the grey, flickering.

"I see you found the girl."

Jeremy glanced down at Alicia, and then back up to Renard. A bone-deep wariness spread through him, and his muscles engaged. He wished he'd had a piece beneath his pillow.

"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here." Renard exhaled and flicked the remainder of his cigarette out the window, into the rain. "But you shouldn't be so alarmed. I'm here to help you. Romanov is alive."

"Not anymore." He'd taken a bullet to the head. Jeremy could replay the shot in his mind.

But Renard shook his head, a sneer marring his features. "I know you're the best, my friend, but this time you missed. It's a shame...for both of us."

Jeremy saw the tell-tale signs of fatigue and fear in the tightness of Fomenko's face. It sent a new surge through him. He knew what had happened even before Renard told him.

"He sent me to bring you to him. I'm supposed to turn on you. He has Mira." He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. Taking a deep drag Renard looked at Alicia, still sleeping peacefully, thanks to his opening the window.

Jeremy watched him, uncertain how much to trust to what he was saying. Wishing now that Alicia wasn't on top of him, that his gun wasn't locked up in that case beside the bed. He wished he'd killed Renard before going after Romanov.

Renard's eyes flicked back up to his. "I know you're wishing I was dead. But I am going to take you to him, but only so you can kill him." He stubbed the cigarette out on the sill of the window, smashing it. "Mira's probably dead anyway." He exhaled the smoke hotly.

For a moment Jeremy considered trusting him. "You know where he is?"

"Yes. At the church."

He knew which church he was referring to. The church where he had shot Romanov's mentor, Dyusheyev.

"Mass is at six." Renard flipped his lighter in his hand, "I can't bring any men, Romanov is watching me. Anything we do, it will have to be just us." He looked at Aliica. "I don't know what you'll do about her."

Looking at her, sleeping still, Jeremy didn't either. Romanov wouldn't care about her, but he might want to kill her all the same. Romanov wanted to kill the whole world. "Is the doctor back?"

"No. And he won't be." Renard blew a cloud of smoke, a third cigarette between his fingers. "I flipped the nine."

The house numbers on the door, it was a trick that men like Renard and the doctor, the network they were apart of, used. A flipped number was a condemned sign.

"Good." But that still left Alicia. He looked up at Renard, still skeptical. "Why isn't Romanov here, now?" He was having Renard followed? Why not do it now?

The man looked at him hard, anger flickering in his black eyes as he flicked the ash off of his cigarette.

Because this was personal. Jeremy looked down at Alicia. It certainly was. He slid out from under her, careful not to rouse her.

Renard watched him enviously. "He knows she is here if he knows you are." He was somewhat apologetic, despite the fact that it was something out of his control.

Jeremy understood both points. He also understood that Renard had to leave soon. If he stayed too long it would raise suspicion about exactly how much was told, and even if Vladimir expected Renard to betray him, doubt would be an ally. They had to act their parts.

According to Vladimir's plan, Fomenko would leave. Jeremy would stash Alicia somewhere, and then he would go to find Romanov at the church. With the intent to kill him. Now that he knew his plan, he still had to follow it. Deviating only enough to save Alicia's and his own lives.

"I have men who could protect her. It would be plausable to Romanov if you let them take her somewhere. I have a house in the country. If he has men follow them, they will die. As surely as Romanov will die tonight." Renard took another long pull as if he could taste it.

It wasn't a plan that Jeremy liked. But then he didn't like any plan that involved Alicia out of his sight while Romanov still drew breath. Yet he couldn't kill Romanov and protect Alicia. That was a white lie. Technically he could have done it, given the right position, and since he had the weapon capable of the distance. But deep inside, he did not want Alicia to see him kill any one else. He put that above everything else. "Send a car in an hour."

Renard nodded his head and turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. "Assassin,"

Despite himself, Jeremy answered the term and turned. The Russian was looking at the Alicia.

"Whatever your name is, that is _what_ you are."

He said nothing.

Rendard met his eyes, "But she will pay for it."

Jeremy saw a haunted look in the black eyes, he saw guilt etched in ever line on his face. Still, he made no answer.

The other man looked at Alicia again and then tore his eyes away, lighting another cigarette, leaving the apartment in palpable silence.

Standing in that grey room, Jeremy looked at Alicia for a long moment, memorizing the shade of her skin, the shape of her face. He couldn't keep himself from realizing the truth in Fomenko's words. It was inevitable.

Something twisted on the inside of him as a new truth rose inside. He had the power to protect her, not only now, but for the rest of her life. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and without further hesitation, he picked up his case and left.

When Alicia woke she was alone.

A chill crept across her skin and the curtain on the window flapped in wind. It was dark, stormy outside. She sat up, wiping the sleep from her face and stood. "Jeremy?" She straightened her skirt and stepped into the hall.

The light in the kitchen was on, a halo in the grey, and she could hear movement in that part of the house. Padding across the chilled floors, she followed the noise, coming into the small kitchen to find Jeremy with his rifle spread across the table.

Pausing in the doorway, still half asleep, she watched him. He did not look up at her, but she knew that he was aware of her presence. There was a stiffness in his neck and shoulders, a determination in his face, as if he was purposefully avoiding her. Waiting altered nothing, she had to break the enforced silence, hoping that it was only her imagination, "What's going on?"

Jeremy glanced up at her, and then looked at the clock on the wall. "The car will be here soon, you should get dressed."

Alicia stood mute as he moved past her, wondering why he looked so tired, why his eyes never reached her own.

Jeremy got his coat and removed money from the pocket. He handed it to her.

She took it, mechanically, and looked back up at him, confusion clouding her eyes as he continued preparations. But for what? Brows bunching, she frowned, "What car?"

"To take you to the country." He started packing the weapon away.

"What?"

"You have to wait there. It's the safest place for you."

"For how long?" He kept working, refusing to look up.

"Just until tomorrow. Then you'll go back to Britain."

"_I'll_ go back?" She shook her head. "You mean _we'll_ go back -"

"No, I mean you. You will go back, you'll take Henry, you'll raise him, you'll live your life and you'll forget about everything that happened here."

It started to sink in. Like a knife, it started to sink in. The pain in her chest spread to her head and every limb of her body and she was fully and painfully awake. "Why?"

"Because it's not safe here."

"No, why are you doing _this_?" She stepped between him and the table.

Jeremy looked at her, reinforcing his guards. "Because you're not safe - you will never be safe with me." He couldn't protect her from himself, that had suddenly become clear to him now. He moved around her, desperate to put something between them.

Unable to stop him, trapped in disbelief, Alicia let him move past her. Finally her voice kicked in, "What if...What if I don't want to be safe?"

"You don't mean that." He said, not looking up, ignoring the selfish part of him that said to believe her.

"Yes, I do. Don't tell me what I mean, I know what I mean, I know what I feel and what I want. I don't want you to do this. I don't want you to shut me out."

The rush of her words was more damaging than a barrage of bullets.

"I think it's you. I think it's you who's afraid of not being safe."

At last he met her eyes.

"You have to trust someone, Jeremy. You have to trust someone someday."

"You forget what I've done." He said, hoping that he might scare her away. If he reminded her that he was a killer, maybe she would stop looking for the good in him, maybe she would stop pulling it out of him, making it harder to do what he had to do - Leave her.

"No. I haven't." Her voice was hoarse. "But I haven't forgotten that you're more than that." She tried to see him, but he was closeted off from her, the man she knew as Jeremy. It was like looking for Dr. Jekyll in Mr. Hyde.

Her plaintive eyes, her persistence were too much. His conscience stabbed him. "I can't give you halves, Alicia."

"Good-"

"I can't be Jeremy Cale."

Alicia wasn't certain what that meant.

He stopped, looking down at the dissassembled gun on the table, and faced the truth. He could feel her behind him, waiting. She would have to face it too.

"My real name...is Jude Raleigh." He turned to her, eyes raw, "I killed my father when I was eighteen. Used his own 9 millimeter to do it. The courts ruled it self-defense because he was drunk and beating me with a cricket bat at the time. Still, I killed my own father so I joined the army after that, punished myself. It made me an expert marksman and little else." He paused, moving towards Alicia who hadn't moved or blinked, "Then the CIA recruited me and Jude Raleigh died in an arms envoy in Afghanistan." He stood a hair's breadth from her, "All I am is a killer. All I have is blood on my hands. I can't give you anything else."

"What about this morning?" Alicia's lips felt numb, as she struggled to digest everything.

"This morning was," Heaven. "a risk." His eyes were grey, "A risk I can't take."

Lungs cramping, Alicia looked away from him as her eyes filled.

He turned away from her. "I can't pretend to be something I'm not."

Listening to his footfalls, so loud and finite, Alicia struggled to speak, "But you said you wanted to be different..."

"I do." But his voice was removed.

"And you can. I don't understand?"  
"What am I doing, Alicia?" He turned to her again, his eyes darker, the green flashing with energy as he was backed further into a corner of utter, brutal honsesty.

She looked at him, at the gun, and then back at him, stupified.

"I'm preparing to go and kill someone. The someone who kidnapped you because I killed someone else. I can't just walk away. I walk away, my past follows me. This..." he gestured to the rifle, to what it represented, "This will taint everything I touch." He looked at her, but kept himself closed off from her. He wouldn't let it taint her. "It will. As much as I let it." He turned and snapped the lid shut.

The pain in her lungs went deeper - somehow, she didn't know how it could get worse, but it did. It felt like she was shrivelling inside, as if all the life was being pulled out of her, like a raisin. Her heart felt like a hard and wrinkled raisin inside of her chest. It couldn't pump the blood and oxygen to her body. She couldn't stop him. "So that's it? You're just going to - to send me away? Do this and disappear? Forget this? Forget us - me?"

He met her eyes, leaving no room for her to doubt. "Yes." But he knew he would never forget her. She looked very pale and small in that grey dress, her hair was a tangle of curls about her shoulders, her hazel eyes were wet and glimmering with pain he had caused. No, he would never forget her. "I will forget everything. So will you.

"No, I won't." she said with a defiant tilt to her chin. It ached. This memory would ache for a long time, forever maybe.

"Then, I'm sorry." He looked over his shoulder, but wouldn't take his hands off of the case. It was too tempting to take her and crush her to him, take back all that he had said. But he couldn't do that. That would only be a deception to himself, and an execution to her. He looked away. "You only have a few minutes now."

There was no way she could speak. Her throat was useless, almost as useless as her heart. It pumped but she couldn't breathe.

It was a paradox; he had wholly opened himself just as he completely closed her out. She was confused, stunned, angry and hurt. There was so much she had to say, so many questions, but there was no more time. Everything was silent, deafeningly so. In that moment Alicia feared that the silence would pollute the rest of her life.

Her heart was a metronome, counting down their last moments together, waiting. But the metronome in her chest only kept the time for silence.

Resignation, acceptance, they were bitter pills, but Alicia swallowed them as she turned away.

Even though he wouldn't allow himself to turn and look, Jeremy knew the moment she left. It was the moment when he couldn't breathe. It was the moment when he went numb.

It was a decision. He wished he could erase himself from the world, from this life, from _her _life. He wished that he wasn't what he was, that he hadn't done what he had done. He wished that he hadn't made so many mistakes. Yet wishing was only wishing. Those mistakes now formed a wall. One that he couldn't allow himself to tear down. What would come to him today, tomorrow, in a week, in a month, in ten years...he knew deserved it. But Alicia didn't.

It could have seemed so noble. But inside he raged against the truth. He looked for an alternative, even a loophole. But there was none. It was his paradox. His desire for her, his love for her - they thwarted each other at every turn. He wouldn't let himself follow her and make promises and give comfort. Instead, he numbed himself against her. He chose to numb himself. It was a decision. She was his reason.

He closed the case with a decided snap.

* * *

**AN: New chapter - in much better timing i think, eh? :) Thank you, readers, for all the reviews, faves and alerts - they rock my day and fuel my fingers! Linkin Park's 'Numb' and the piano cover of that same song on youtube, provided the soundtrack for this addition. Let me know what you thought, please, and remember that constructive criticism is welcomed. Till next time...A.**


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